


Yell fire

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mission Fic, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, Prostitution, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27228676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Nat rarely gets in over her head.  Occasionally, though, her missions begin to go very wrong.
Series: Nat on Fire [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796122
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Yell fire

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051

Nat rarely gets in over her head. Occasionally, though, her missions begin to go very wrong. 

The target she’s stalking fails to pick her up at the hotel bar. He goes for the Latina instead, with the soft black curls falling around her shoulders and a glistening gold dress that barely falls past her full, round buttocks. Nat huffs as she watches them retreat up to his room, then orders herself a shot of vodka.

She’d been planning to use the silk ties in his suitcase to lash him to the bed frame, then interrogate him with her gun under his chin, but now the idea’s a bust. All Nat really needs is the memory stick inside his briefcase, though it would be nice to collect the extra intel while he pleads for mercy. And maybe to leave a bullet in his head, depending on what he tells.

Nat gets up from the bar, ignoring the businessman who tries to grab her arm, and slips out onto the veranda. It’s chilly, so on one’s taking cocktails outside tonight. Nat touches the gun tucked away in her thigh holster, then takes a breath, and moves on with her new plan.

She leaves her heels behind a potted palm tree, then stands on the veranda’s railing, the strap of her handbag clasped between her teeth. Nat bends her knees and jumps, easily taking hold of the bottom bar of the balcony above and swinging herself up, letting go briefly and reestablishing her grip on the top bar instead. Lithe as a a gymnast, she rolls forward and lands catlike on the balcony proper. 

Nat repeats the maneuver six times, five up and one over, till she reaches her destination. The target and his choice from the bar have closed the curtains over their balcony door, but they’ve failed to completely shut the glass over the screen. Once Nat’s close enough, she can hear the quiet moans that must mean their transaction is in progress.

After wrapping the strap of her bag around her wrist and pulling out and cocking her weapon, Nat silently slips two fingers in the gap of the balcony door. She shoves, praying to no one that it’ll move silently. It doesn’t, but the room is a suite, and the couple seems too distracted to notice the errant noise.

Once inside, Nat glances around. The area she’s entered is something of a living room, with a bathroom off to one side, and the occupied bedroom off to the other. If she had any luck, the briefcase would be left out for her to collect, unseen, then slip back out and leave the way she came. That would be a decent outcome. Not ideal by any means, but a success nonetheless.

It turns out that luck is not on Nat’s side, though. The briefcase is nowhere to be seen. It must be in the bedroom, still in the target’s line of sight, even as he’s getting fucked. Nat has to give him a little credit where credit is due. Not all her targets are complete idiots.

Nat takes a breath, then moves toward the bedroom door. It’s halfway open, for those inside can’t possibly be expecting visitors. Nat gives herself no time to hesitate. She silently pushes the door the rest of the way open, keeping her weapon pointed straight out in front of her. 

The couple in the bed is entwined face-to-face, so they both look up in shock when Nat steps out of the shadows. 

“Hand it over, or you’re dead,” she says tonelessly. There’s no need to elaborate. He knows what she’s talking about. He’s HYDRA. He has to.

“Mm.” The man grunts as the woman shifts beside him, effectively unsheathing him beneath the blankets. “No.”

Nat doesn’t care much who he’s addressing. “Ok.” She lines up the sight on her weapon with the center of his forehead. Then she addresses the woman. “Don’t scream.” And releases the shot.

The target falls back against the pillows, eyes blank and open. The woman jars beside him, looks at Nat, then opens her mouth. “Fire!” she yells. “Fire!”

So Nat does.

The woman’s hair falls across the pillow, now sticky with a spray of blood. Nat would have let her go, just to keep the collateral damage off her mission report. But what’s done is done, and now Nat has to wash her hands of it.

She rifles through the briefcase until she finds the memory stick, then stows it in her purse. Nat heads to the bathroom, where she leaves a deposit of vodka and bile in the toilet, then examines her reflection in the mirror for any evidence of blood spatter. There is none, though Nat’s pale and sallow-looking, so she borrows the deep mauve lipstick the woman must’ve left on the countertop and refreshes her face.

Then Nat holsters her weapon, jams her feet into the woman’s slightly too small shoes, and leaves the room through the front door. It may be throwing caution to the wind, but tonight it’s what she needs. Tonight it’s what she deserves. Tonight she’ll take the walk of shame. And once she gets outside, she’ll run.


End file.
